


Routines (mine, yours, ours)

by Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Smut, bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5098367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John likes routines. More importantly, John relies upon routines.<br/>Sherlock hates routines. More importantly, Sherlock distrusts routines.<br/>And yet, they fit together perfectly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routines (mine, yours, ours)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Katy](http://billytheskull.tumblr.com/) for his job as a beta !
> 
> The lyrics in bold are from the song "Fire meet gasoline" by Sia.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://letthechoirsing.tumblr.com/)

**John**

**“So come on now. Strike the match, strike the match now.”**  


John likes routines. More importantly, John relies upon routines.

Routines are trustworthy, reassuring. They’re predictable. 

Besides, John Watson knows one thing for sure: routines can save your life.

~ ~

John’s routines are the ones of a simple man.

It doesn’t matter in which part of the world John wakes up, it will always be as the sun rises. John loves nothing more than to linger in bed, listening to the silence stretching in the early morning and enjoying the few minutes he’s got to himself. 

Mornings are always John’s favorite part of the day. 

But waking up in his army bed in Afghanistan does change things. First, he’s surrounded by twenty other men, their breathing and light snoring too loud in John’s ears. Second, the temperature is already too hot outside, making it impossible to stay in place too long. It’s only after two weeks at the camp that John finds his routine, truly getting used to the place.

Every day, John exits the barracks as quietly as possible and walk to the nearest dune right next to the camp. Usually a couple of guards are there, remaining silent as John makes his way to the top of the sand. Then John sits, watching the sunrise alone and thinking of the men he’s going to command today, the battles he may have to fight, the villages and civilians he will protect. 

No matter where he finds himself, John’s routines are comforting.

~ ~

Every morning, Officer Layson makes sure his bags are full, methodically counting his medical supplies three times over. He ignores the complaints and eye rolls of his comrades.

Officer Layson listens to their mockeries, to the laughter and judgment, and keeps counting.

And one day, as blood soaks into the burning sand and screams rend the air, Officer Layson’s carefully filled medkit save his captain’s life.

~ ~

Going back to his daily routine as a civilian turns out to be more difficult than John had anticipated.

Ella says routines are going to save John. They will make his return to London more comfortable and as reassuring as it can be. John wants nothing more than to believe her. He actually tries for the first few weeks, pretending he doesn’t miss the searing heat and adrenaline. He still wakes up early every morning and stays in bed, the street of London already alive behind his closed curtain. He listens for long minutes and then goes to his morning rituals. It must feel as if nothing has changed, Ella repeats all the time, but John cannot help but feel that everything has. 

He doesn’t enjoy his daily walks through the park anymore, and the mere thought of looking for a job make his leg throbs with pain. He doesn’t want to think of the questions he will get during job interviews. He knows it’s only a matter of time before people will start holding the door for him, or asking if he needs any help at the grocery store. 

John does not want to live to see that day.

John’s routine shifts to accommodate those long hours he spends at his desk, staring into the barrel of his gun.

~ ~

Then, one warm January day, John meets Sherlock Holmes.

He doesn’t know it yet, but the man he’s being introduced to is going to upset all of his routines.

~ ~

During the first two weeks at 221B, John tries to maintain his routine and mistakenly, he tries to include Sherlock in it. But John quickly realises that expecting anything ordinary or (even worse according to Sherlock) repetitive, is a waste of time. Sherlock makes sure living in 221B is a constant surprise, John never quite succeeding in his attempts at normalcy. He never once thinks of complaining.

John’s internal clock keeps waking him up early, which allows him some time to himself, before going downstairs to find Sherlock already awake or, more often, never having gone to sleep. Sherlock usually stays quiet until breakfast and John enjoys for a while the comforting silence of their home. But John’s usual routine stop here.

John’s blue toothbrush is right next to Sherlock green one, the sink as often as not occupied by a foul experiment or blackish water. John’s given up counting the number of times Sherlock has burst into the bathroom while John is using it, claiming the sink for himself and forcing John to use the one in the kitchen.

Living with Sherlock means abandoning his breakfast to chase after a criminal, it means heads in the fridge and toes in the silverware drawer. Sherlock breaks John’s routines one by one, and soon mornings are never the same. John complains halfheartedly, more out of a sense of obligation than anything, and ignores Sherlock’s smirks. 

John learns to give up his old routines, and creates new ones without protesting. Having the chance to share Sherlock’s Holmes life is worth losing all of his old habits.

~ ~

“You know, I haven’t even had the time to store those vegetables away yet.” John sighs, putting the last bag of groceries on the table.

“I needed them for the last three days,” Sherlock states, already peeling the tomatoes. “I was wondering when you’d go to the shop again.”

“You could have gone,” John retorts, putting away the few groceries Sherlock hadn’t confiscated. 

“But you’re so good at it,” Sherlock replies, not looking up from his study of tomatoes. 

“What? Going to the shop?” John asks, not quite believing what he’s hearing. 

“Yes. You’ve been doing it for years, surely you know how to make the trip as efficient as possible.”

John can’t help but laugh, Sherlock’s comment making, in a weird way, some kind of sense. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”

Sherlock only shrugs, the tomatoes now spread out across on the table. Sherlock dices them into tiny squares before repeating his pattern with the cucumbers. 

“What are you even working on?” John finally asks, turning on the kettle. 

“Too complicated,” Sherlock replies, not looking away from his array of vegetables.

“That, I know, is not a compliment,” John mutters, looking away as he fills two mugs with hot tea. Although Sherlock barely eats, John has learned that the man never refuses a cup of tea, and especially enjoys the green mint ones. Much to John’s pleasure, they’ve accumulated an eclectic collection of tea bags and Sherlock never misses a chance to buy some new flavors once in a while. 

“There you go,” John says as he puts Sherlock’s mug next to him.

He heads to the living room, not expecting any kind of acknowledgment from his flatmate, and turns on his computer. He hasn’t checked his email in a while, and they’ve certainly received some interesting cases. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t say no to a chase or mysterious disappearance. 

_This is a kind of routine_ , John realises as he takes a sip of his tea, a sigh of contentment escaping his lips. 

__

~ ~

Only two months after he moved in, John develops a new routine. One he’s not proud of, but keeps indulging all the same. Three or four times a week, John wakes up panting, his cock hard and throbbing and his mind full of Sherlock’s voice and body. He’s had wet dreams before, everyone has, but since he’s moved into 221B, those dreams have become much more vivid.

Today, John wakes up lying on his front, his hips rocking against the mattress even as he opens his eyes. Sherlock had been stroking himself in John’s dream, lying on his bed as John watched from afar.

“Oh, god,” John whimpers silently, remembering the lines of Sherlock’s chest and the noises he had made, calling John’s name. 

John closes his eyes again and grinds against the mattress, hyper aware of Sherlock asleep (or not) downstairs. He has to be quiet, or Sherlock would deduce in a matter of seconds what John is up to. 

“Fuck,” John pants, his hands fisting the sheets as he rubs himself against the bed, so slowly. 

The contact is too rough, his cock aching for more but John doesn’t satisfy himself yet. He imagines Sherlock in his own bed, right under John’s, and wonders if Sherlock ever wakes up in the same state. Does he takes himself in hand and get rid of his erection quickly, as efficient as ever? Or does he take his times, some fantasy playing through his mind? 

What does Sherlock think about? Does he imagine being pinned down, someone thrusting into him fast and hard? Or is it slow and loving? 

“Oh, _fuck_.” 

John turns on his back, his hand finding his cock immediately. He imagines Sherlock, all long lines and pale skin, lowering himself down onto John’s cock. Their eyes and hands locked together. Sherlock is beautiful in a way John can’t exactly explain, his lines too sharp and his body slim. John doesn’t dare to imagine Sherlock’s body damp with sweat, his eyes filled with plain lust and his gorgeous mouth letting out the most delicious sound. 

John strokes himself faster, chasing his orgasm relentlessly, and in his mind’s eyes he sees Sherlock’s head fall back and his large, pale hand grip his own cock. Sherlock’s eyes widen and he comes across John’s chest. 

John bites into his fist to muffle his shout as he climaxes, coating his stomach with come.

Silence fills the room and John closes his eyes again. He cleans himself without looking, and gets to his feet. At least he won’t have to indulge in the other routine he developed. Wanking in the shower is a bit more dangerous than in his room anyway.

~ ~

In the end, living with Sherlock Holmes saves John’s life, no matter what the consequences are.

John’s life changes, and despite the body parts in the fridge and being left behind at crime scenes, John knows it has changed for the better. Of course John is glad he managed to keep some of his old habits, and Sherlock learning to accept them is all John dared to hope for. 

But the routines John likes the most now are the one he’s created with Sherlock. He loves their quiet domesticity, sitting in their respective chairs in comfortable silence. He loves rooftop chases and bickering over Sherlock’s experiments and eating too much takeout. He even loves long cases, and the way Sherlock’s face lights up when he puts the clues together. John wouldn’t trade his new life for anything in the world. 

Even if it means loving a man he will never be allowed to touch. It doesn’t matter. John only wants to create new routines with Sherlock until the rest of his days.

~ ~

**Sherlock  
“We're a perfect match, perfect somehow.”**  


Sherlock hates routines. More importantly, Sherlock distrusts routines.

Routines are common, boring, and predictable.

Sherlock Holmes learned early on one simple fact: routines can get you killed.

~ ~

At age four, Sherlock learns one important lesson: do not let routine dictate your life.

People are gathered around him but none are talking, the silence stretching to the entire cemetery. Sherlock watches, Mycroft as always by his side, as their grandfather’s casket is lowered into the ground. Sherlock stares at the large hole in the fresh grass. He thinks of the man running away at this very moment, driving a car he took from an old man on an early morning five days ago. 

Sherlock stares at the ground and thinks of his grandfather’s habits, how he had driven to the local shop every morning for the last twenty years. 

“It was his daily routine,” his grandmother had cried.

~ ~

Making sure not to follow any routine is really too easy.

An irregular sleep pattern helps quite a lot, and Sherlock learns to love walking around London at random hours during the night (quieter, less people, less distraction.) Even if it’s just to smoke a cigarette, or disturb the Yard at the most annoying time, Sherlock makes sure not to follow any patterns. 

Once or twice, cocaine threatens to destroy all of his effort, the need for a fix too strong for Sherlock to keep switching dealers (demands too much effort, too much time.) He knows he’s exposing himself, making it easy for anyone to follow his track. But during two (blissful) years of his life, Sherlock doesn’t care. He just needs a little rest. 

As usual Mycroft comes to the rescue (presumptuous as always), presenting himself as the voice of reason and giving Sherlock numerous ultimatums.

“Careful Mycroft,” Sherlock warns one day, his high making him lose his temper. “This caretaking lark is becoming a dangerous routine of yours.” 

Mycroft doesn’t listen, and Sherlock ignores him entirely. He knows too well how much Mycroft hates it.

Surprisingly the voice of reason turns out to be one Detective Inspector Lestrade. The man promises Sherlock the life he always wanted, and in only two months Sherlock is sober (mostly) and back on his feet. The good thing about working with the Yard is that the cases are all so different, Sherlock never following the same path twice. Sherlock’s acerbic personality helps fend off potential “friends”, the police quickly learning that he isn’t one for small talk.

Sherlock’s life is a constant storm, always changing, never stopping. After all, he can’t afford any weaknesses.

~ ~

Then, one tedious day in January, Sherlock is introduced to John Watson.

He knows it the instant John walks in that this broken man is going to destroy all of Sherlock’s well build barriers.

~ ~

Sherlock realises only two days after John moves in that going back to his previous living arrangement is not an option. Strangely, he only feels relief at the thought.

John is a constant surprise, making Sherlock’s mind work faster (unexpected) and keeping an eye on him at all times (convenient.) Sherlock should have known after John killed the cabbie that he, in appearance ever so ordinary, is in fact the exact opposite. John tackles murderers to the floor, shoots men in cold blood and giggles about it afterwards, and punches people who laugh at Sherlock. John Watson is a mystery, living side by side with Sherlock’s each day and yet unsolvable. Really, Sherlock should be used to it by now. 

For some reason, John prefers to act as if he is an ordinary man (another mystery) and Sherlock watches as John develops habit after habit. First, John gets to know Sherlock’s entourage (tedious) and Lestrade immediately likes John. For no obvious reason, Sherlock finds himself resenting all those evenings they spend together, deducing they’ll be talking about him the entire time. But then, John going out with Lestrade is always better than John going out on a date (very, very tedious.)

Because if Sherlock has to choose only one surprising fact about his flatmate, it would be this one: somehow, between steaming cups of tea and exhilarating chases around London, John Watson fit himself into Sherlock’s life and heart without any warning.

~ ~

Nine months into their flatshare, Sherlock is forced to accept the fact that he has developed routines of his own.

He can’t deny the regular evenings at Angelo’s diner, or the Sunday walks in the park. John had been surprised at first, the first time Sherlock asked to accompany him, but the thought of staying in the empty flat wasn’t really appealing at the time (not the good kind of quiet.) And honestly, Sherlock enjoys those walks. Most of the time Sherlock would deduce the people around them while John listened carefully and muffled his laughter behind his hand. But there are days when neither of them talk (the good kind of quiet), and Sherlock enjoying those walks even more. 

Sherlock also has now several routines within 221B. He always waits for John to wake up in order to watch John walk downstairs and stretch, and see that sliver of his skin where his shirt rides up. Then he goes into his bedroom to listen to John’s rituals in the bathroom. He knows them by heart (loo, teeth, shower), and he likes to picture John’s strong body moving in the small room. And then there are the days that he can hear John moaning quietly in the shower. Those are his favorite days. The glass door in Sherlock’s bedroom allows him to discern forms and colors, Sherlock picturing without difficulty John’s compact body, his muscular thighs and back. Sherlock closes his eyes and imagines John’s movements as he touches himself, firm and slow, before taking his own aching erection in hand. (Surprising at first. Not satisfying enough now.) 

On those mornings, Sherlock doesn’t care if he’s developed a routine, stroking himself, listening to John’s muffled groans.

~ ~

Sherlock knows John actually cares about his routines, and Sherlock has taken to discover them all.

Right now, for instance, as they sit down to interrogate a possible suspect, John cracks his neck, a habit only meaning he’s bracing himself for whatever’s going to happen. 

“Mrs. Laurence,” Sherlock begins, smiling as he notices John writing down the suspect’s name in his notebook. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Mister Holmes,” says the tearful woman, trembling slightly. (Almost convincing.)

Sherlock smiles politely and listens as John asks the first question. Sherlock always lets him talk first, the suspects always feeling more comfortable talking to John (understandable), while Sherlock watches for any sign that the suspect is lying. As usual, John asks about the details of the murder first, writing down everything, before getting to the more sensible questions. 

“Where were you at the time of the murder, Mrs. Laurence?” John’s voice is calm, steady.

“At- At home, why?” she asks, frowning. She shifts slightly in her chair. Sherlock suppresses a smirk.

“Mrs. Laurence,” Sherlock intervenes, “we were told you liked to gamble, is that right?”

“Yes, I’ve never hidden that.” She turns to John and asks, in a waspish tone quite different from her earlier quavering voice, “Why is this relevant to my sister’s death?”

“We are just trying to understand why might have happened, that’s all,” John assures her. He smiles, another habit of his, but Sherlock sees the doubt and seriousness behind it. Sherlock is not certain yet, but it appears that John’s warmest smile is only meant for him.

“Surely a smart couple like the both of you realize my gambling has nothing to do with it,” Mrs. Laurence says defensively. (Interesting.)

“We’re not a couple,” John responds automatically.

Of course, not all of John’s habits are nice to witness.

~ ~

Some days, when Sherlock realises how much John has upset his life, the weight of all that is unsaid between them is too much to bear.

The idea of being in a committed relationship had never occurred to Sherlock before. He had never imagined living with someone for any amount of time, accustomed as he was to flatmates kicking him out because of his experiments or his violin. He had thought even less about love. Years ago he had decided that emotion was equivalent to frailty and put it out of his mind. Sherlock shouldn’t have to worry about John going out and maybe never coming back, he shouldn’t think twice before chasing after a murderer just because John asked him to be careful. Caring about someone else was never an option, and Sherlock had managed just fine until then. 

But John.

Sherlock’s world seems to revolve around John Watson these days. He isn’t sure when that happened. He can’t imagine going a day without listening to John’s complaining about the line at Tesco, or watching him laugh in front of the TV, or standing at his side at a crime scene, listening intently as Sherlock rattles off deductions. John has taken up all the space in Sherlock’s flat and mind, and Sherlock fears the day John will decide to move on to live a real life, an ordinary life. A perfect house, perfect wife, perfect kids. A life that would bore John to death, but a normal one. 

If there is one thing Sherlock is sure of, it’s that he will never be able to provide any sort of stability for John.

~ ~

“And then the suspect threw the chandelier at my face and ran in the opposite direction, right into the nearest wall. Idiot.”

John’s laughter fills the living room again, and Sherlock takes another sip of his scotch.

“You’re telling me that you only caught this guy because he knocked himself out?” John asks, between fits of laughter.

“I’m afraid that’s true.” Sherlock smiles, the warmth in his belly spreading to his chest (John’s fault).

“Not the greatest success of the famous Sherlock Holmes.” John finally says, tears forming at his eyes. He wipes them away and grabs his drink.

“I still caught him,” Sherlock says, staring at John’s lips as he drinks.

“At least the chandelier didn’t cause any damage,” John says, suppressing another round of giggles.

“As always, John, you care about the pointless details,” Sherlock jokes, knowing it will make John rolls his eyes. 

John’s giggles fade into silence and when he answers, his voice is deadly serious.

“Caring about you is not pointless.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, staring into the fire burning next to them. _I actually like this routine_ , he thinks as he finishes his drink. Long winter evenings are often spent by the fire, but tonight’s scotch was John’s idea. Not that Sherlock is complaining. He can contemplate John’s red cheeks and warm smile and get away with it. 

“I’m not sure how you managed to stay alive all those years,” John smiles, looking at Sherlock and then back down at his drink. 

Sherlock shrugs and his voice is carefully casual when he says, “I have you now. You’ll make sure nothing happens to me.” 

Sherlock sees John nodding from the corner of his eyes, neither of them talking for long minutes after that. 

“Well, I’m off to bed,” John finally declares, rising to his feet. He stands before Sherlock, waiting for a few seconds before heading to the stairs. “Good night, Sherlock.” 

“Good night, John.” 

Sherlock, more than anything, hopes he will get to wish John good night for years and years to come. 

__

~ ~

**John & Sherlock  
“We were meant for one another. Come a little closer. ”**  


John stops all of his routines, once Sherlock is buried. He leaves Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, and his previous life, and tries to forget about it.

Sherlock chases Moriarty’s men all around Europe, collecting scars and leaving a trail of bodies. He falls asleep every night thinking about John waiting for him in their flat.

~ ~

“John.”

John’s fist hits him under his left eye, breaking his nose and knocking him to the ground. Looking up at John standing in the doorway of his new apartment (too cold, too small. John hates it), Sherlock realises he could have thought of a better way to announce his return after all. 

“What the hell, Sherlock!” 

“I can explain,” Sherlock says calmly, getting to his feet slowly and wiping the blood off of his face. John watches him with such fury (disappointment?) that Sherlock decides it’s best to respect his personal space for once. 

“I don’t want your bloody explanation,” John shouts, “I want you to get the fuck out!”

“John, please, just listen—” Sherlock tries.

John slams his door shut. Sherlock hears the tinny jingle of multiple locks being slid into place. He considers picking the locks and forcing his way inside, forcing John to listen to him. (Bad idea.)

Sherlock sighs and sits down against the nearest wall. John will have to come out at some point, and Sherlock intends to be right here when he does. He did not spend two years away to give up after one bad encounter. 

Sherlock is going to get John back, no matter how long it takes

~ ~

The first time John kisses Sherlock, he’s been back at Baker Street for three weeks. Sherlock is sulking on the couch, and it hits John without any warning. Just like that, John realises Sherlock is truly back in his life, so very alive and right here. So John walks to him, refusing to wait another second without Sherlock knowing how much he means to him, and kisses the man.

~ ~

The thing is, John knows how easily Sherlock gets bored, just as easily as a relationship can become repetitive. He’s also aware it’s the first time Sherlock has ever engaged in this sort of commitment.

And John can’t wait to make him discover all the joys and advantages of a relationship. So John develops a new habit, one he intends to keeps for a very long time: make Sherlock experience as many first times as he can.

~ ~

John insisted on having “date nights” every month. The first time he had mentioned it, Sherlock had to resist the urge to roll his eyes, but John’s red cheeks and hopeful grin had convinced Sherlock in a matter of seconds.

And to be honest, Sherlock does (surprisingly) enjoy going out on dates with John. 

“Where are you taking us tonight?” John asks, ducking into the cab behind Sherlock. Sherlock smirks, feeling an adventurous hand making his way under his coat before closing the door. 

“You’ll see,” Sherlock replies, giving the address to the cabbie quietly. “Aren’t you the one who love surprises?”

“I do, don’t worry,” laughs John, reaching for his hand and twining their fingers together. “But I have to say I’m curious.”

Sherlock looks back to the window in order to hide his smile. He put a lot of work into tonight’s idea, but he can’t seem to erase the tiny doubt in the back of his mind. He knows John will love it, but then, so much can go wrong. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates more than anything, it’s relying on other people. 

“Hey, don’t stress yourself out,” John said. He sounded much closer than Sherlock had expected. “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

“I know it will be,” Sherlock responds a bit too sharply, but John just laughs, low and predatory, and moves closer still.

“You could just tell me, you know,” John smiles, his mouth right next to Sherlock’s ear. 

“Nice try,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning into John’s touch, “But you’ll get nothing from me.”

“Oh, is that so?” 

John’s voice sends shivers through Sherlock’s body but he doesn’t let it show, refusing to lose this little game of theirs. John’s thumb is stroking his hand slowly now, his mouth leaving tender kisses on Sherlock’s jaw. And Sherlock can feel his own will shuttering, his hand squeezing John’s with every kiss.

“John,” he whispers, John’s tongue ravishing his neck now. 

“I hope this surprise of yours involves some dark places,” John whispers, the ghost of his words caressing Sherlock’s skin. “I plan to take advantage of you as much as I can tonight.”

Sherlock lets his head fall back, offering his neck to John’s sweet tortures. No doubt now, John will love tonight’s plan. And apparently Sherlock will too.

~ ~

The first time John kisses him in public, Sherlock realises he has been waiting for it since the beginning. Even when John was only his flatmate and best friend, Sherlock lived for those moments when John’s possessiveness was too obvious for anyone to ignore. And now, as he smiles into John’s kiss, Sherlock can’t help but feel proud of being the subject of this wonderful man’s love.

~ ~

John loves their morning rituals.

He loves the mornings he wakes up with Sherlock nearly on top of him, wrapped around his body like an octopus. They usually end up having lazy, amazing morning sex and John knows he couldn’t have started his day a better way.

But John also love the mornings when he wakes up to an empty bed. Sherlock is already up (or when he never did came to bed at all.) If he listens carefully, he can hear Sherlock walking around the flat. Sometimes he’s muttering to himself about an experiment, sometimes talking on the phone with Lestrade. John just lays there, listening to the familiar sound of their life and feels complete. 

John knows Sherlock likes to be kissed first thing in the morning, so he makes sure to find him as soon as he’s awake. Sherlock’s lips are always so soft, chasing John’s mouth whenever he tries to pull away. It isn’t unusual for Sherlock to attach himself to John’s back and follow him throughout his entire morning’s ritual. 

Of course, there are the days when John wakes up to find the flat empty, or Sherlock sulking on the couch. But John knows by now to give him some time and eventually he will rise from the couch, wild-haired and pouty, to kiss him good morning. So John goes on with his morning, waiting for Sherlock to come crashing against him asking for his morning kiss and then John obliges, a small smile on his lips.

~ ~

The first time Sherlock makes John come, they’ve been together for a week. An entire week of teasing caress, tender kisses (or heated ones) and silent promises. The need, the visceral desire for more skin, more contact had been torturing Sherlock for days, and when John’s hands unbutton his shirt, Sherlock’s entire body trembles with anticipation. Sherlock fights to keep his eyes open as John moves above him, determined to commit everything to memory. John moans his name, and Sherlock cannot believe he is the source of this wonderful man’s pleasure. And then John takes him apart and builds him up again the very next second.

~ ~

John wakes up almost unbearably warm, Sherlock’s long body pressed up against his back and his arm slung over John’s waist. John smiles as Sherlock snorts softly in his sleep. Last night had been amazing, John’s lips stretching into a lazy smile as he remembers Sherlock’s sudden attack as soon as they got home. John had teased him all evening, with small touches and heated stares, knowing it would drive Sherlock crazy. John is certain he will never forget the mind-blowing sex that followed.

 

“Hm, John. You’re thinking too loudly,” Sherlock mutters, his lips moving against the nape of John’s neck.

“Morning,” John whispers.

Sherlock’s only response is a low moan as he moves his hands to John’s hips, pressing his arse back against Sherlock’s cock. John moves willingly, his own flaccid cock hardening quite rapidly as he feels Sherlock’s hot breath against his neck. 

“Sherlock, god.” 

John moves his hands backward to grip at Sherlock’s arse, urging him to move faster. Sherlock bites tenderly at the skin behind his ear, and John takes himself in hand, his climax already too close. 

“None of that,” Sherlock purrs, pulling John’s hand away. “I intend to have this lovely cock inside of me very soon.”

John moans loudly, his breathing quickening as Sherlock pushes him onto his back so he can straddle his hips. John pulls Sherlock down to him and captures his mouth, smiling at the whimper that had escaped Sherlock’s lips. John easily slips one finger into Sherlock’s arse, still wet with lube from last night’s activities, and Sherlock breaks the kiss and lets his head fall back. 

“Yes, _John.”_

John quickly adds another finger, knowing neither of them is going to last long and Sherlock grinds down on them, his gorgeous mouth open and his eyes shut tight. 

“Oh god, now,” Sherlock commands. He lifts himself up onto his knees and then quickly lowers himself down onto John’s cock, shouting as it fills him. 

John is already too close so he plants his feet on the bed, thrusting up, shocks of pleasure running through his entire body. Sherlock is undulating above him, riding John’s cock with devotion, one hand planted on John’s chest for balance, and the most delicious sounds are coming out of his mouth. John grips at Sherlock’s hips, driving into him harder and harder until Sherlock cries out loudly, his body tightening around John and he comes buried deep inside his lover. 

“John, John,” Sherlock whispers, out of breath as he gingerly lifts himself off of John’s cock and lays down next to him. 

“Did I ever told you how much I love morning sex?” John asks, holding him close. 

“Even if you didn’t,” Sherlock smiles against his neck, “I think I’ve noticed by now.” 

John lets out a laugh before bringing Sherlock’s face to his, kissing him chastely. “Good.” 

“Indeed,” Sherlock yawns, his eyes closing again. 

__

~ ~

Much to Sherlock’s surprise, he actually learns to like their routine as a couple. And particularly the evenings spent alone at Baker Street.

Sherlock is usually already home when John gets back from work, occupying himself with some experiment or working on a case. First, Sherlock hears the door downstairs, quickly followed by John’s footsteps. By now Sherlock can deduce John’s mood just by listening to him climbing up the stairs and Sherlock has two to three second to decide to either greet John at the door (bad day, in need of comfort) or go make some tea (difficult day, needs to relax). But most of the time John comes back tired, seeking Sherlock’s lips as soon as he gets in which, of course, Sherlock obliges with great pleasure. 

There are times that Sherlock can’t seem to take it all in. He watches as John prepares dinner, talking about his day at the clinic, and the intimacy of the situation threatens to undo him. Sherlock never planned for any of this, he never wished for a relationship or for any sort of company. He had only wanted something to keep his mind busy, to keep him occupied. This is all too much, too fast and Sherlock can’t take it. He can’t be a good partner (he isn’t even listening to John right now.) He will mess things up. It’s only a matter of time. 

But then, there are John’s lips on his (warm, chapped, hint of tomato sauce) and Sherlock’s mind shuts down. 

“Stay with me,” John smiles, his thumb stroking Sherlock’s cheekbone absently.

And Sherlock remembers it’s alright, John will be right here.

~ ~

Then, there are all those sexual first times Sherlock gets to experience, John never getting tired of discovering new ways of getting him off.

There’s John’s foot inching towards his crotch during dinner at Angelo’s. Sherlock tries to keep his moan as silent as possible, John’s licking his lips right in front of him. Sherlock pushes John’s foot more firmly against his aching cock, his hips thrusting in their own accord and his climax hits without warning. 

There’s John’s mouth working on him right after a case, the dark alley too close to the street and Lestrade’s voice in the background. Sherlock comes quickly and returns the favor with such fervor that John can’t muffle his gasp (loud, too loud) as he comes down Sherlock’s throat.

There’s also the long nights at home, John worshiping every inch of Sherlock’s body in their bed. Time seems to stop and Sherlock is certain he’s going mad with pleasure. On those nights, Sherlock understand why people care so much about sex. Never did he imagined he could felt so loved, so desired. Sherlock lives for those nights. 

There’s those mornings where John joins him in the shower, already stretched open and wet, and Sherlock only has to bend him against the wall before sliding in. It’s fast, and uncontrolled, but Sherlock loves every second of it and stores every detail into his mind palace right afterward. 

Sherlock knows that he has a lifetime with John to discover what sex really is, and the prospect of it all leaves him hungry for more.

~ ~

“Tell me you didn’t use our bed for your experiment?” John asks as he enters the room, his voice already resigned.

“Fine, I won’t,” Sherlock replies absently.

“Sherlock, we sleep in this bed,” John complains, already packing some clothes for the upstairs bedroom. It’s been years since he slept there. He needs to air it out and change the sheets. “Are you even listening to me?”

Sherlock doesn’t even stir, his entire concentration fixed on the suspicious mud splattered on their sheets. John considers asking about it for a second but decides against it. He’ll deal with it later.

Sherlock doesn’t emerge from their bedroom until late at night. John is already asleep in his old bed, only waking when he feels two cold hands against his stomach. Sherlock’s warm breath caresses his neck. Sherlock moves closer until he’s in his customary sleeping position, half sprawled across John’s body. 

“Finished?” John asks, stifling a yawn. He holds Sherlock’s hands between his own to warm them. 

“I didn’t realise it was so late,” Sherlock replies as he snuggles against him more comfortably, a habits John never thought Sherlock would love so much. 

“It’s okay,” John yawns, already falling back asleep. 

“I don’t like sleeping in your bed.”

“Whose fault is it that we have to?” John smiles. 

“The sheets smells weird,” Sherlock continues, ignoring his remark.

“You mean like clean sheets?” 

“I mean not like us.” Sherlock whispers before kissing John’s neck.

John turns around, his mouth finding Sherlock’s for a tender kiss. Sherlock’s content sigh dies between his lips, and John shifts to find a more comfortable position. He just hopes they won’t have to stay upstairs too long, he does miss their bed too.

~ ~

__  
__

_Routines are reassuring, common, predictable.  
But, in the end, it doesn’t really matter.  
Because ours are all I need._

**"Burn with me tonight”**  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are very appreciated ;)


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